They were even poorer than usual just now, and the supper Marco and his father sat down to was scant enough. Lazarus stood upright behind his master's chair and served him with strictest ceremony. Their poor lodgings were always kept with a soldierly cleanliness and order. When an object could be polished it was forced to shine, no grain of dust was allowed to lie undisturbed, and this perfection was not attained through the ministrations of a lodging house slavey. Lazarus made himself extremely popular by taking the work of caring for his master's rooms entirely out of the hands of the overburdened maids of all work. He had learned to do many things in his young days in barracks. He carried about with him coarse bits of table-cloths and towels, which he laundered as if they had been the finest linen. He mended, he patched, he darned, and in the hardest fight the poor must face--the fight with dirt and dinginess--he always held his own. They had nothing but dry bread and coffee this evening, but Lazarus had made the coffee and the bread was good.
As Marco ate, he told his father the story of The Rat and his followers. Loristan listened, as the boy had known he would, with the far-off, intently-thinking smile in his dark eyes. It was a look which always fascinated Marco because it meant that he was thinking so many things. Perhaps he would tell some of them and perhaps he would not. His spell over the boy lay in the fact that to him he seemed like a wonderful book of which one had only glimpses. It was full of pictures and adventures which were true, and one could not help continually making guesses about them. Yes, the feeling that Marco had was that his father's attraction for him was a sort of spell, and that others felt the same thing. When he stood and talked to commoner people, he held his tall body with singular quiet grace which was like power. He never stirred or moved himself as if he were nervous or uncertain. He could hold his hands (he had beautiful slender and strong hands) quite still; he could stand on his fine arched feet without shuffling them. He could sit without any ungrace or restlessness. His mind knew what his body should do, and gave it orders without speaking, and his fine limbs and muscles and nerves obeyed. So he could stand still and at ease and look at the people he was talking to, and they always looked at him and listened to what he said, and somehow, courteous and uncondescending as his manner unfailingly was, it used always to seem to Marco as if he were “giving an audience'' as kings gave them.
He had often seen people bow very low when they went away from him, and more than once it had happened that some humble person had stepped out of his presence backward, as people do when retiring before a sovereign. And yet his bearing was the quietest and least assuming in the world.
“And they were talking about Samavia? And he knew the story of the Lost Prince?'' he said ponderingly. “Even in that place!''
“He wants to hear about wars--he wants to talk about them,''
Marco answered. “If he could stand and were old enough, he would go and fight for Samavia himself.''
“It is a blood-drenched and sad place now!'' said Loristan.
“The people are mad when they are not heartbroken and terrified.''
Suddenly Marco struck the table with a sounding slap of his boy's hand. He did it before he realized any intention in his own mind.
“Why should either one of the Iarovitch or one of the Maranovitch be king!'' he cried. “They were only savage peasants when they first fought for the crown hundreds of years ago. The most savage one got it, and they have been fighting ever since. Only the Fedorovitch were born kings. There is only one man in the world who has the right to the throne--and I don't know whether he is in the world or not. But I believe he is! Ido!''
Loristan looked at his hot twelve-year-old face with a reflective curiousness. He saw that the flame which had leaped up in him had leaped without warning--just as a fierce heart-beat might have shaken him.
“You mean--?'' he suggested softly.
“Ivor Fedorovitch. King Ivor he ought to be. And the people would obey him, and the good days would come again.''
“It is five hundred years since Ivor Fedorovitch left the good monks.'' Loristan still spoke softly.
“But, Father,'' Marco protested, “even The Rat said what you said--that he was too young to be able to come back while the Maranovitch were in power. And he would have to work and have a home, and perhaps he is as poor as we are. But when he had a son he would call him Ivor and TELL him--and his son would call HISson Ivor and tell HIM--and it would go on and on. They could never call their eldest sons anything but Ivor. And what you said about the training would be true. There would always be a king being trained for Samavia, and ready to be called.'' In the fire of his feelings he sprang from his chair and stood upright.
“Why! There may be a king of Samavia in some city now who knows he is king, and, when he reads about the fighting among his people, his blood gets red-hot. They're his own people--his very own! He ought to go to them--he ought to go and tell them who he is! Don't you think he ought, Father?''
“It would not be as easy as it seems to a boy,'' Loristan answered. “There are many countries which would have something to say-- Russia would have her word, and Austria, and Germany;and England never is silent. But, if he were a strong man and knew how to make strong friends in silence, he might sometime be able to declare himself openly.''
“But if he is anywhere, some one--some Samavian--ought to go and look for him. It ought to be a Samavian who is very clever and a patriot--'' He stopped at a flash of recognition. “Father!'' he cried out. “Father! You--you are the one who could find him if any one in the world could. But perhaps--'' and he stopped a moment again because new thoughts rushed through his mind.
“Have YOU ever looked for him?'' he asked hesitating.
